


A Man of Worth

by Tammany



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Career Change, Character Study, Gen, Mentorship, Older Characters, Professional Behavior, Spies & Secret Agents, pre-Mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-24
Updated: 2014-03-24
Packaged: 2018-01-16 20:49:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1361326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Character study, can be seen as Pre-Mystrade or simply a set-up for increased professional friendship. Mycroft dealing with Lestrade and Anthea--Lestrade as one of his trusted operatives, Anthea as his protege. </p><p>I tend to think of Mycroft as being loved by his own small team, even if everyone else in government fears or loathes him. You don't succeed in the kind of work he's doing if your own people aren't utterly loyal and committed. He's the Inspector General for all England and some of the US. That's not something you can do without loyal people backing you up, protecting your back, and standing between you and the bad guys. As a result I write him reserved, but also caring...at least to those with eyes to see. A man who may be difficult and definitely demanding, but whom a subordinate could respect and admire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Man of Worth

 

“Agent Lestrade is here, Mr. Holmes. Shall I send him in?”

“Not yet, Anthea. If you’ve a moment, could you come in, please?”

“Of course, sir.” Anthea turned and sent a practiced smile to Greg Lestrade. He was one of her favorites—a loyal officer of the crown, a reliable and talented agent, a safe flirt, and good at minding Her Holmeses. A quadruple-threat. “This should just take a minute, sir. So far as I know there’s nothing exceptionally complicated hanging fire today. Probably just clearing the decks before he talks to you.” She paused a moment to send an order for the tea and sandwiches Mr. Holmes kept on standing order for those rare occasions when he had Lestrade in for a planning session, then went into her mentor’s office.

“You wanted to see me?”

Mycroft gave her one of those contained smiles that layered artifice with sincere affection—the prim effort of a retiring man. “Not exactly, my dear. Indeed, the reverse. I want you to see—to _witness_ something. Then go out and…audit…the meeting. Lestrade knows these sessions are not technically private, so you need not fear it’s a breach of good faith on your part or mine.” He turned his laptop to her. “This is my own assessment of the upcoming contact with Yvgeni.”

“Rezov cell. Hoping for an exchange of prisoners,” Anthea said, less out of a desire for confirmation as to show she was keeping up to date and on track. “Worried about a double-cross, though.”

“Exactly,” Mycroft said, and leaned back as she crouched by the desk, spinning through the assembled files. There were blueprints and maps dealing with proposed sites for the exchange, strategy analyses of what was likely to happen, lists of people likely to be deployed by all pertinent players. When she’d done a once through she looked at Mycroft. “Want me to review a second time with anything particular in mind?”

“All elements regarding my preferred deployment scenario. When, where, how, why. Who.”

She nodded, and took a second pass, more slowly…though it would still seem like very little time to the man waiting in the office beyond. Anthea was where she was because she good. After a few moments she said, “Lestrade in charge. Elizabeth Wilder on point. Preference for the Brixton car park we’ve used before, but you think they’re going to succeed in forcing the Swindon site on us. Nothing else jumps at me, sir.”

He nodded. “As well I would expect. Now, my dear, toddle back on out and make nice, and then listen and learn.”

Anthea nodded. “Mind if I steal some of your tea and sarnies before they go in?”

“Go right ahead. It’s not like you didn’t order for three,” he said, with another of those tight, smiles—the mouth prim, the eyes reserved, alert, with that trace of sincere affection that won her over every time. She grinned and went out, wishing she could drop a kiss on his balding brow, as if he were her dear old Da.

 “He’s ready for you, sir,” she said to Lestrade, with a polite smile. “Go right on in. Tea is on its way.”

Lestrade nodded, smiled, and ducked into Mycroft’s office.

Anthea linked her wireless earpiece to the office pickup, and synced her screen with everything in the office—soon enough she was tracking Lestrade’s tablet, too, as it hooked into Mycroft’s secured network. In the first few minutes, as Lestrade and Mr. Holmes exchanged opening reviews of the situation, she got going putting Lestrade’s files in parallel to Mr. Holmes’, the better to catch variations between the two.

“Tea?” said the office gofer, pushing a cart loaded with survival supplies for middle-aged secret agents—black tea, fat sandwiches on white bread, sugary pastries—and a bowl of fruit that Anthea knew both men would ignore. She grabbed the spare thermos flask of tea she’d had set aside for herself, snatched an egg mayo off the top of the heap, and nicked an orange, before sending the minion on in. Both men behaved themselves very well while the minion was present—but to Anthea’s amusement the descended like starved feral dogs the minute he left. For a few moments there was nothing to be heard but the clink of mugs, the glug of the big tea carafe, and the faint contented growling noise of men applying themselves to large, satisfying sandwiches.

Anthea put in effort to restrict her own growly pleasure to minor whuffles and smacks. Still, the commissary made good egg mayo…

Soon enough the men were running through their respective files and projections.

“No—we’re pretty sure Kasyanov’s out of play,” Mycroft said. “Assassinated by his own people six months ago, while being held in the Ukraine.”

“Mmmph. Ok. Move Deschutes into that spot, then…but drop the price tag. We can’t offer Pelevin if we’re only getting Deschutes in return.”

“Agreed. What about a wild-card—they’ve been holding that journalist the CIA used as a front back in ’09.” Mycroft hummed, softly, then said, “Lynn Schultz. She’s been in custody for far too long, and if we get her back we’ve got a bargaining chip we can hold over everyone’s head. Leverage with both the Russians and the Americans.”

“I like it,” Lestrade said, then, more seriously, added, “but I’m not betting on us getting anyone. This one feels wrong.”

“Agreed. Putin’s people may be backing Yvgeni, but their hold over the cell is weak, and they’re unhappy being used as a conduit for Russian trade-offs. They’re likely to try to take captives of their own.”

“They’re likely to kill. They don’t have the finesse to take captives,” Lestrade growled. “It’s high-risk.”

“Agreed,” Mycroft said again. He sighed. “I’ve considered cancelling the attempt.”

Lestrade rumbled disagreement. “No. No matter what the outcome, we’re going to come out ahead in terms of power on the board. If they go through with it as planned, we get our prisoner exchange, we strengthen that particular line of communication with the SVR*. Chernykh has been developing a workable system that gives us all some room to make deals in good faith.”

“Tch,” Mycroft clucked, amused. “You’re MI5, _I’m_ MI6. Stop nicking my best arguments, Lestrade. And as good as it would be to strengthen our ties with Chernykh, I don’t like risking our people with Yvgeni’s lot. They’re mad dogs.”

“That’s why we cut it down to one contact going in,” Lestrade said, as the images from his tablet began to flicker and shift on Anthea’s screen. “One man—someone reliable, but an expendable asset. Send them in armed and prepared, work through the escape routes—but we don’t put too much into it if it goes pear-shaped. Come down like a ton of lead if Yvgeni does turn on all of us.”

“I’d rather slip in backup before the meet.”

“Hard to do at the Swindon site.”

“Hard, but not impossible, Lestrade.”

“If it goes sour, it just means we have more people in the line of fire.”

Anthea evaluated the blueprints the two men were scooting around, watching as they zoomed in, listening as they exchanged evaluations of the potential risks and advantages of various plans. It was always an education to watch her boss at work with his best people…and with Mycroft, no matter how many times he said, “MI6,” the truth was “his people” included almost anyone who might prove useful, and absolutely anyone who’d ever accepted a government paycheck.

She found herself balanced on a knife’s edge between the arguments each man presented throughout the discussion. Mycroft’s plans provided more security, but put more people at risk and were more likely to lead to the collapse of the tentative arrangement with Yvgeni’s terrorist cell. Lestrade’s though, looked increasingly likely to her to cave in on the agent going in.

“Who would we send,” Mycroft asked.

“Me,” Lestrade responded. “Sherlock’s out of that loop—too well known, too tasty a hostage for Yvgeni. On top of that, he’s simply not ‘expendable asset’ any more. Bets Wilder’s too green. Wilkerson’s my best trainee, and he just had a kid. Zhen Zhou Bai’s a great analyst, but she’s not really at her best in the field.”

“And you’re the man I call in here to act as my liaison,” Mycroft pointed out, voice dry. “You’re not exactly what I’d call an ‘expendable asset’ either. Much too adaptable, too. You’ve got your undercover role, your position maintaining your own MI5 cell, and you’re my backup man with Sherlock. First pick again, as often as not, now that John Watson’s married. Hardly a disposable piece on the board.”

Lestrade sighed. “I’m flattered, but let’s get realistic, Holmes. I’m on the northern edge of my likely use as a field agent—too old for it. And much as you may like me as a liaison, I’m not going to be able to maintain the spot once I’m out of the field. You’ll have to move me to a desk job, and that cuts me out of the Met work—which is also going to turn into a desk job soon. I’m not at my best behind a desk. On top of that—three years ago I had a wife. Four years ago you needed me to babysit Sherlock. Six years ago you didn’t have anyone at all who could work with Sherlock at all. I wasn’t expendable. Now? No family. Too busy for friends. And my prime place handling the _NON-_ expendable asset has been shrinking for years…which is just what we hoped for. But it leaves me in that sweet-spot you can’t help but like in a field agent: I’m good at what I do, but if someone puts a bullet in my head, nothing will fall apart at the seams. No projects, no teams, no family at home. I’m expendable…more than the rest of the team. Which,” he added with a touch of acid in his voice, “is not where you really want to be with a team, for what it’s worth. Find my people someone who can’t be replaced, Holmes. They deserve it.”

“Do you really rate your value so low, Lestrade?” Anthea could hear her mentor’s chair creak as he leaned back. She could see him in her mind—it was characteristic. Eyes slightly narrowed, head tipped back just a bit, body neat and tidy, but stretched out in that throne of his: Zeus contemplating a mortal. “All your years of training, all your connections, all your ability to make things work no matter what we hand you?”

“Training goes out of date as fast as light—the information’s old before it’s even passed down the line, and the skills go to hell with the body. You know that. If I were you—if I lived and breathed detail—I might move into a spot like yours. But I’m not. Best I could do would be move to a spot like Anthea-dearest—and, yes, sweetie, I do know you’re listening. Back-up man for you…without her skills at making the paper fly and the chauffeur show up on time. Or I could turn teacher. But the bottom line is I’m not well suited for most of the promotions you could give me, and too damned good to stay where I am and rot while you try to protect me.” He sighed. “Spend me, Holmes, if that’s what works. Better spent than hoarded till I rot in my chair. Two years ago I would have been missed—by someone. By the Met, by Sherlock, by you and your people, by my ex. Now all I’d be is mourned, which isn’t the same thing.”

Mycroft made a small, dissatisfied humming sound. “Rather maudlin, if you ask me. Really, Lestrade…”

“Where would you put me?”

“As you said: teacher. Head of a new team, in a less active field role. Or, indeed, in a role similar to Anthea’s—it would be nice to have one reliable aide I wasn’t preparing to fly away from me, someday. You’re at a point in your career to back me up in a permanent role, rather than as a trainee.”

Lestrade said nothing, though Anthea was nodding excitedly. She took a risk, and IMed on Mycroft’s private screen, “Yes! This job’s already too big…and he’d be great at the parts I suck at!”

“Little pitchers have big ears,” Mycroft said, cheerfully. “Anthea’s cheering in the outer office. Just in case you need confirmation the idea’s not entirely insane.”

Lestrade chuckled, but then sighed, heavily. “It’s nice you’d want me. God knows, being your backup is like being right hand to God, but with better benefits and less chance of crucifixion or fallen-angel status. But…Holmes, you’re not going to get me at a better time. I _can_ be spent now. No one who can’t live without me, no one I can’t bear to leave. I’m as close to that perfect secret agent--with no ties at all--as it gets. He sighed again, a bit sadly. “Hell. I don’t even have a reliable _cover-name_ thanks to your kid brother. One of these days even John’s going to work out what it means that Sherlock thinks I’m his handler, and that ‘Greg’ is an assumed name.”

“Greg _is_ an assumed name.”

“I know. And there’s no one left who cares either way…no one left but you and other administrators who even know what the original name was. I’m there, now, Holmes. The perfect, invisible, dispensable man.” He stood—Anthea could hear the creak and sigh, and the low grunt as he stretched. “Eh. I’m not going to keep arguing. God knows, I’m not suicidal. You’ve got the final call. Just…don’t spend lives if you don’t have to. This contact’s worth a try, even if it goes south, so long as the loss is minor. It’s not worth it for the price tag you laid out, though.”

“And if we pass it up entirely?”

“Why pass? You’ve got the option. Why not go with it and see what it gets us?”

“Hmmm. I’ll consider it.” Anthea heard him rise. “As always, a treat working with you, Lestrade. How you bear playing the lout for that brother of mine I don’t know. The temptation to show your real worth must be enormous. You’ve done a good job preparing.” 

“Eh, playing the fool for Sherlock’s amusing. Always kind of interesting to see how low I can go before people catch on.” The feed from his tablet was cut as he closed up for the night…but Anthea had been thinking ahead, and saved the information off in a separate file for her own review.

“Heh. Dwarfs with blow-darts in ventilation shafts?”

“Hey, he caught me off guard on that one. He didn’t warn me I’d be in the spotlight…”

“Indeed.”

The door opened, and Lestrade strode out of Mycroft’s office, followed more slowly by Mr. Holmes. Lestrade grinned at Anthea. “Busybody,” he said, fondly. “You’re lucky I know this all gets vetted regardless.”

She shrugged and grinned at him, radiant and cheeky. “That’s what they pay me for, Mr. Lestrade.”

“And they get value for their money,” he assured her.

“Yes, they do,” she said, “I’m the best. And I think you should consider that idea of Mr. Holmes'. It doesn’t all have to be desk work, you know.”

“Hours spent sitting in Mycroft’s black Jaguar limo-tanks? No thank you. But—I’d be honored to work with you if it happened,” he said. And then he was gone with one last, “Bye, Mr. Holmes. Get back to me on your final decision.”

Anthea waited till she heard the near-silent hum of the lift doors opening and closing, then looked at her superior. “You expected that to go that way?”

“Yes.”

“That’s just short of suicide-by-foreign-agent.”

“Not quite. His reasoning for risking an agent is sound enough—though I’d prefer a greater prize to offset the loss. He’s not even wrong about his having ‘achieved’ a certain expendable status. We do like our orphans and lone wolves.” He sat on the edge of her desk, and peered at her screen. “Now, my dear, tell me what you see comparing our two plans.”

She leaned toward the screen, fingers flying as she checked point against point. She frowned. “He’s right, you know. You’re overloading the backup. If you’re forced into the Swindon site it’s going to be impossible to get that kind of firepower in place ahead of time.”

“True. And?”

She leaned back and pondered. “You’ve classified the case differently—low-probability trade, minor advantage contact. But even you’ve opted for the agent who goes in to be an expendable asset.”

“Yes. And?”

“You didn’t recommend Lestrade. You recommended his protégé.”

“Yes. Why?”

“She’s got training, but no experience. She needs experience if she’s going to advance.”

“And?”

“And you can’t get experience without taking risks.”

“Yes. What else do you observe?”

“That you want her going in with the entire British Government at her back.”

“Why?”

She thought some more, then said, quietly, “Because ‘expendable’ isn’t the same as ‘worthless.’”

He smiled at her—and this wasn’t the tight, shy, semi-artificial smile, but a true beaming smile that made her feel like Supergirl and Wonder Woman and Emma Peel all at once. “Very good! And if a promising young trainee with no experience is expendable but not worthless—what is a skilled undercover operative with twenty years experience, superb team management skills, and the ability to work with my lunatic brother?”

“Priceless,” she said, grinning.

“Exactly.”

“So…you’re not sending him in?”

“Not in a million years.”

“No suicide-by-foreign-agent?”

“Only if he finds his own…which I do hope he doesn’t manage.”

“And his future?”

“Under discussion with quite a number of people. Including you. Your opinion?”

“Right hand man, but in a more active role than I am. Put him in charge of a sub-team of field workers and analysts. Maybe even use him as the catalyst that lets Sherlock work with more ordinary field agents. Middle-man to the Madboy.”

“Very good!” He slipped off the desk, then asked her one more question. “And…why did I make you listen in, and do this review afterward?”

She smiled. “Besides that it’s good practice for me?”

“Yes, besides that, smarty-pants.”

She looked at her boss, then, and said, softly, “Because, sir, you are the British Government. And if the British Government is going to decide that an agent’s priceless, it’s in everyone’s best interest to ensure that his reasoning is sound and unbiased—especially when, as far the Britsh Government is concerned, Mr. Lestrade would not just be mourned—but missed.”

Soft blue eyes approved of her. “Very good, Anthea. Very good. And has the British Government behaved as it ought?”

“Quite, sir. With one exception.”

His brows flew. “Indeed?”

She nodded.

“What?”

She considered telling him—and lost her nerve. Instead she said, “Work it out yourself, sir. Just…stripping yourself of connections doesn’t make you expendable, or without bias, or safe. So—what does it do?”

He cleared his throat uneasily. “It’s professional,” he said.

“Yes, sir.”

He collected his umbrella. “I’m not lonely,” he said.

“No, sir.”

“Yes, very well.” He walked toward the door.

“He’d miss you too, sir…if you managed to commit suicide-by-solitude. Is a beer and a dinner too much for either of you to expect out of life?”

He frowned. “You presume.”

“Yes, I do.” She straightened. “You’re training me to take your place, someday—or something similar. Tell me—is it my duty to become a hermit, then?”

“You’re not me.” When she said nothing, he said, very softly, “It can be done, my dear. It can. Just…not by me, you see.”

She shook her head. “Two pints at the Feather, and dinner after. Think about it….think about it as hard as you want him to think about taking a place as your backup.”

“I…”

“Do you trust me to take your place, someday?”

He straightened. “My judgment regarding my trainees has been immaculate, my dear.”

“Then trust mine to be immaculate, too,” she said, then grinned, “Now, scram, Mr. Holmes. It’s late, and I want to go home.”

He nodded, turned, and turned back, saying, “He’s not the only one who’s priceless,” before he disappeared into the dim hallway beyond.

She smiled as she turned off the last switch. She quite liked her boss, she thought, and murmured to the ever-listening audio bugs, “No, he’s not the only one, is he?”

 

 

*Modern Russian Secret Service dealing with foreign affairs: roughly equivalent to CIA and MI6. Think of it as KGB rev.2.


End file.
